Bitter
by Gin-kyo
Summary: A torturer's job was to heal wounds as well as he made them. But for a man who took exceedingly good care of his beautiful charge, even he could make mistakes.


**Bitter**

The smell of rotting straw and dried blood was a familiar sour-sweet greeting to his senses. It smelled like home and he took several good whiffs of it each time he entered the lowest cell of the Tower.

His prisoner, his only charge was where he'd last left him. Such a well-behaved one he was. But as the torturer grew closer, he realized something was very wrong this early morning. Griffith was breathing heavily; the labored sound could be heard from where he stood. A new smell, the stench of sickly perspiration permeated the air around him as sweat poured off his face and ran down his bony chest. He shook slightly, supported against the stone wall.

The torturer trotted over and dropped to Griffith's side, hands hovered over his body in concern. The unhealed, long ragged cuts from the day before were swelled and his whole body radiated a febrile heat. His was half-awake, eyes murky, all unfocused and glazed like marbles set in his skull and hooded with moist eyelids. All remaining strength in his charge was fading fast.

_Fever? Infection! Good gracious, how horrible. I was so careless._

That was one of the King's rules: No infection. Infection was not a knife or brand or some metal instrument that could be controlled. No no no. Infection would kill him. Without permission and without care. It would steal his life. His head bobbed rapidly, remembering, resolving.

A slow, proper death as was prescribed? Perhaps. But still much too quick for the King's orders. Could not disappoint the King. Everyone he'd ever known in his life had cursed him. But the King! The king had blessed him. Blessed him with this tired hand-me-down savior of Midland. This perfect human who would always remain perfect in his eyes.

Horrid infection…Curse it. He simply couldn't let it take hold. The King's greatest rule of them all, the great law: Griffith must live.

_Stay strong, my dear heart. I'll fetch you some medicine._

He came back moments later with a sloshing pail of water and a basket of bottles, knives and bandages. Griffith turned his head weakly to look at him as he kneeled down, a slow recognition dawning on his face.

That was most strange…his dear charge didn't often look at him. He was always looking somewhere else, somewhere far far away. Prisoners did that sometimes. They'd dream wide awake. Griffith certainly did that quite a lot, a glorious history to reflect on was further proof of his exquisiteness. He drifted incessantly; as if he could occupy every hour of his life save for the one at present. As if he could go again to a place where day and night had meaning.

Griffith looked at the basket and pail for a long moment, blinking once or twice.

Then, all inquisitiveness vanished and very slowly, his prisoner looked back up and met eyes with him. The depth of Griffith's aimless consciousness was focused into one lethal gaze so suddenly and so intensely that the thick glass bottles slipped from his fingers and he cried out in surprise. Freezing cold and possessing a crystalline sharpness, Griffith's gaze stunned him with a dose of venomous hatred. So palpable. So present. So promising of death.

He shuffled back. A spike of wild fear. "I'm sorry!" he shouted loudly. "I'm ss-"

He caught his breath, stalling for a moment before remembering that his prisoner could not move; could not do him any harm.

_How irrational of me. Where did that come from?_

The fear lingered on, lessened slightly, but then he shivered a pleasurable shiver. No one had ever looked at him that way before.

He forced the medicine down Griffith's throat, thought briefly about how the dark green liquid tasted and was thankful that his charge would be spared from that terrible bitterness. He stroked at the sweet red tongue that hung on a string at his bare chest. _How I spare him._

As carefully as he could, took a sharp knife and cut into his crinkled, scared flesh like tissue paper, split open the old wounds for cleaning. Griffith wheezed, which was like his way of crying out in pain.

The sort of cry that only empty mouths could utter.

He pat Griffith on the head, running his fingers through short, soft locks. _Just relax my dearest one. Fear not, I will save you._

Hate burned steadily in Griffiths eyes for as long as he worked. When he finally finished binding him with bandages, Griffith slumped to the floor, a pile of trunk and limbs.

He fell into the slumber of sickness and slow, bitter healing.


End file.
